Ol'Jack
by Linorea
Summary: When a strange guest with black fur come to stalag 13... Rectified version !
1. Chapter 1

Hi, maybe you already have read this story but this is the rectified version, thanks to Sierra Sutherwinds who accepted to help me with that.

So, thanks Sierra

And for the others, good reading !

Summary : a Cat in Stalag 13.

Disclaimer : nothing belongs to me, except the cat of course.

Ol'Jack

There was a boring atmosphere inside the barrack two; no talking, no heavy noises. Violent flashes lit up the falling rain, causing dancing shadows on the floor and walls.

Corporal Peter Newkirk of the RAF was trying to sleep after having read a particularly bad novel for the third time. It was not as if they had a real choice of books, though. He sighed when a loud flash scratched the clouds. It had been a very long day.

Sergeant Andrew Carter was sitting at the table focused on making a house of cards. Despite his concentration, the house kept falling after two hours.

The French man of the barrack, Corporal Louis Lebeau was the only one who did not seem to be bored, his mind focused on his cooking. Dinner would be ready soon: potatoes, again, with some rabbit meat they brought from their last mission in town. Being a prisoner of war did not mean being forced to eat the same horrible soup every day.

Speaking of missions, the bunk hiding the tunnel entrance opened on the American sergeant James Kinchloe. He seemed as bored as the others. That could mean only one thing, no mission from London to change the monotony of the life in the camp.

Suddenly, Carter squeaked, bringing on him everyone's attention. A gust of wind coming through the open door had tumbled down his house of cards. However, the actual reason of his surprise was on the floor. A big black cat, soaked by the rain, entered slowly through the door he had just pushed with his head.

Ignoring the men staring at him, the animal approached the stove. He sat down, licking his fur to help it dry. Lebeau was first out of shock and knelt down in front of the newcomer.

"Hey, kitty, kitty."

He reached out in an attempt to caress the black fur but the cat was not too cooperative. Lebeau barely had time to remove his hand before the cat scratched his fingers. The cat warned him with a wicked look. A long scar closed one of his eyes and the other was red.

The French cook, although a little disappointed, understood the hint. "OK. Not kitty, kitty then."

"I like this little mate," Newkirk laughed slightly from the top of his bunk.

"I think he's kind of creepy," Carter corrected. "He's black, one red eye... and the storm outside. He could be the devil in disguise. I've heard that the devil takes the form of a black cat, sometimes."

Strangely, no one laughed at the sergeant's fantasies. Night began to fall on Stalag 13, a night with noisy lightning... a frightening night. Newkirk was the only one who laughed but he did not mean to mock any one. "Maybe it's an angel in disguise," he said.

"Angels are fair. Demons are dark. And he's got a red eye," replied Carter.

"Have you ever seen an angel?" Asked Newkirk as he crouched in front of the subject in question.

"Nope, but they are bright."

"I used to think like that when I was a wee lad but me sister kept telling me that Ol'Jack was an angel," said the English corporal, looking at the cat in the eye.

"What's an Old Jack?" Asked Lebeau, curious about his friend's peculiar attitude. Newkirk was not much of a believer, as far as he knew.

"It was a cat, pretty much like this one but he had two deep blue eyes. He used to come home, grab some food and take a nap. Mavis loved him. She wanted to call him Ol' Peter because he was grumpy, not really a touchy loving fellow. Just like me, said she. But we chose 'Jack' because I didn't want to have a cat responding to me name."

"Did it have another house?" Kinch asked.

"We never knew where he came from. The streets of London are up its ears of wild cats, you know. Mavis said he was his guardian angel because he was always there when she was sad or alone. I wasn't there much... and when our mum… Well, he was there too, looking after us."

"You really think Old Jack was an angel?" Carter asked with a childlike hope.

"Why, no," Newkirk answered. "But he was a good cat. A good friend."

All the while, Newkirk had kept his eyes on the black cat, who in turn, kept staring at him. It was as though they were scanning each other.

"So, what do you think Ol'Jack?"

Unexpectedly, the animal let out a long "Miau," that sounded like an answer. Newkirk reached out and, to everybody's amazement, the cat did not crawl away. He stayed there, purring like an old engine as Newkirk pet him on the head.

"You maybe not as grumpy after all," the corporal laughed.

oOo

The colonel Robert Hogan, senior officer in camp, joined his men for dinner. He was surprised to find his English corporal sitting on is bunk with a not-so friendly cat. Hogan had barely come close to caress the animal when he was bitten in one finger. Although the wound was very superficial, the colonel decided not to approach the creature again. The little monster jumped on the table to have a closer look on the menu and seemed to smirk at Hogan with his red eye at the same time.

Lebeau put a bowl of meat and potatoes next to Newkirk's plate. The cat seemed to appreciate the gesture and sat on the table to begin his dinner.

Colonel Hogan's first impression was that Carter had brought the cat in the barrack. After all, he was always the one falling in love with rabbits, mice and any other pets he had met. However, this time, Newkirk seemed fascinated with the beast. In fact, the sentiment was mutual, although there was something else. The Englishman's blue eyes glowed, as if he had just woken up from a long sleep. There was a sort of happiness, different from the usual. Only because of that, Hogan did not even try to explain to his men why they could not have a pet in a POW camp.

"Do you think he could kill Felix?" Carter asked suddenly, looking at the cat. That was the name they have given to their pet mouse. He lived on the walls, and no one was sure if it was just one Felix or an entire family.

"Mice are not stupid, they don't come out if there is a potential danger in the room," said Kinch in a reassuring way.

"So, there is a danger?"

"It's a cat, Andrew. Cats eat mice. It's the way it's always been," Newkirk shrugged. He was not helping at all.

"Don't worry Andrew," Lebeau said, glaring at the English corporal. "I'll feed the monster and he won't have reasons to eat Felix."

"Hey, he's not a monster!" Newkirk protested.

"It's an angel," Carter said, absolutely convinced of his own words. He was also sure that this black cat was a mice killer, though.

"It is a what?" Hogan asked with a puzzled look. Maybe imprisonment was finally driving his men crazy.

oOo

Hogan woke up early the next morning. The rain had slowed down during the night but now, it was falling hard again. Hogan dressed up and left his room, sure that he would not be the only one to be disturb by the rain rattling on the roof. He was wrong. All the men were sleeping like babies. It was not just that they looked immersed in a deep sleep, their faces were peaceful.

Quietly, Hogan put the coffee-pot on the stove. Once the coffee warm enough, he sat on a chair to enjoy it.

A noise drew his attention to Newkirk's bunk. The corporal deep asleep, with the same peaceful expression than the others. The noise came from the black cat, purring as he huddled up to the English man chest, searching for heat. Half asleep like that, the monster almost turned into the angel-cat that Carter had been talking about the night before. _Almost_ was a good word to put it. Hogan still felt the little fang in his poor finger.

"Roll call!" Groaned a heavy voice as the wind opened violently the door and slammed it against the wall.

The big German sergeant Schultz hurried in the barrack, flooding the floor with his wet clothes.

"I pass my turn," Newkirk grumbled, trying to return to his dreams. "I'm not going outside with that bloody rain."

"I was outside. You can too," argued the soaked German.

"You got money for that."

"Colonel Hogan," Schultz appealed to him as his last hope.

The colonel in question smiled at the big man's distress.

"Everyone up," he just needed to say. His orders were instantly followed. Even the cranky Englishman got up at once.

"What is that?" Asked Schultz, staring at the black cat for the first time.

"It's a cat," Hogan answered as a matter of fact.

Schultz looked at the animal for a moment and shuddered when the red eye focused on him.

"I have seen nothing," he mumbled, rolling his eyes. Then, he yelled at the men, dressing up reluctantly as if delaying their time to go outside.

"_Raus! Schnell!"_

" _Ja, Ja_…" responded lazily some of the prisoners.

oOo

Two brief minutes under the rain and everyone was soaking wet and shivering. The wind was so strong that they had to keep caps and hats in their hands to prevent them from flying above the barbed wire. Schultz feared that the poor prisoners would catch pneumonia in that weather, so he rushed to count their heads. Unfortunately, the commandant did not seem to be in a hurry as he kept everybody waiting.

"_Qu'est ce qu'il fait cet imbécile de Klink_! _Il attend qu'on meure tous de froid ou quoi_?" Shouted suddenly Lebeau in his native language. He did not require translation, everybody agreed with the French corporal.

"I think the imbecile is finally coming," the Englishman said, trying to keep his hands warm in his pockets. But his wet jacket was not helpful.

Colonel Klink, German commandant of the camp, was approaching the prisoners lines. He stopped in front of them and waited for Schultz's report.

"All present and accounted for!"

"_Danke _sergeant. They can return on the barracks. Colonel Ritter will not be here today because of the storm. He should come tomorrow."

"_Jawohl Herr Kommandant_!"

Schultz saluted his colonel and dismissed the prisoners who where more than happy to run inside the barracks.

"Did you hear that?" Colonel Hogan asked once they all were inside.

"I usually can't hear anything with water in me ears," said Newkirk, putting off his wet jacket and urgently using it as a substitute handkerchief to stop his sneeze.

Hogan looked around that the Englishman was not the only one suffering from the morning cold shower. Sneezes and runny noses were all around. He remembered suddenly that he was shivering too.

"Okay, fellas, put on some dry clothes before you die of pneumonia. We'll talk about this colonel Ritter later."

oOo

Sometimes, Hogan felt like the father of a big and troublesome family. It might sound like fun all the way, but it could be terribly exhausting most of the time. He changed into drier clothes and opened his door. He had barely crossed the room when he caught a conversation unworthy of military men or adults for all that mattered.

"It's not fair!" Shouted Carter.

"War is not fair." Newkirk was on his bunk, petting Old Jack on his lap.

The rest of the men were by the stove, shivering in their blankets.

"He's warm and I'm cold. You can lend him to me for a while, can't you?"

"But I'm the only one he fancies," said Newkirk. "You don't want to be scratched all over, do you? So take your blanket like anybody else and shut up."

"Boys!" Barked the colonel, wanting to put an end to it. "We have more important things to do."

"You mean about that colonel?" Asked Kinch, playing cards. He was just grateful for not having to listen to his friends' argument anymore.

"What colonel is that, Colonel?" Asked the English corporal.

Hogan sighed with exasperation. desperate. He was too old for those things.

"Colonel Ritter. A German. He'll be at the camp tomorrow. I want to know everything about him. I don't really like surprise guests."

"Absolutely, that's rude to drop by without a warning phone call," Kinch agreed with a smile.

"You never have enough food when it happens," nodded Carter.

"You don't have to worry about that, Carter," said Hogan. "I always find something for to a Kraut colonel."

"_That _really worries me," said Newkirk.

Hogan turned to him and rolled his eyes. Newkirk cradled held his pet in his arms like a baby. His chin was on the cat's head right between two cute and quivering black ears. The cat seemed to like it and stared deeply at Hogan.

_I'm really too old for this job, _thought the colonel.

oOo

_Dear Mavis, _

_Here at Stalag 13, things don't change. It's the same routine again and again. But don't worry about that because it feels all right. Reading, playing cards with the guys, or should I say, beating the poor blokes at the game. You know me; I have the touch with cards and no I don't cheat. Not always the time. _

_Maybe the main problem here is the food. Lebeau never listens to me and I have to eat his rubbish dishes with frogs if I don't want to starve. I'm sure that someday we'll find snails in our soup. There are a lot of them when it rains around the barracks and I can't help looking at them with some apprehension. _

_Speaking of rain, weather has been awful these days. We have to stay in the barracks, occupying our minds with stuff and such. However, we had a surprise. You remember Old Jack? He is here. It's not exactly the same but he has this grumpy temperament you loved. _

_He's got only one eye, a red eye and Andrew was afraid that he could be the devil, disguised as a black cat. So, I tell him the story of our Old Jack and now he's sure the cat is an angel who came with the rain. Infantile, isn't he? Anyway, this cat reminds me of the times we were at home me, you, my lovely little sister and our guardian angel in the shape of a black cat and who brought the blue sky in his eyes. _

_I miss you but with Old Jack here, it's like having a little piece of home with me._

_Your Brother who loves you. _

Newkirk put his pen on the table and blew out the candle. It was late or almost, he could not tell. After tossing and turning in his bed without getting any sleep, he decided to spend the time writing a letter to his sister.

The others were all asleep. No one seemed to mind the weak light. Newkirk knew that he was not allowed to be up this late, but Schultz, the rule enforcer, was probably fast asleep by now.

Newkirk carefully slipped the letter under his mattress where the Old Jack was slightly snoring. He took a look at the lower bunk and frown to see his friend Carter shuddering in his sleep. Roll calls under the rain had successfully given him a cold. Newkirk gently caught the black cat and placed him on his friend's bunk, next to his chest.

"There little mate, keep him warm."

Newkirk climbed up his own bunk and fell asleep as soon as his head touched the mattress.

oOo

After three days of rain, it finally stopped, making way for the snow. A white coat had covered the camp overnight.

"Hey, we could do a snow fight after roll call!" Carter suggested enthusiastically.

"Yeah, you do that," Newkirk mumbled, rolling his eyes at the idea. The rain had stop but the cold was still there.

Carter smiled at him, taking his answer for a yes. The Englishman raised his eyes toward the gray sky, silently praying for mental sanity.

"There he is," said Hogan, as a car entered the Stalag. "Our guest is here."

"I wonder why this colonel Ritter returned from the Russian front. It's not natural, for a living soldier, that is," Sergeant Kinchloe commented.

"I think I have an answer to that," Hogan said, watching the man getting out the car. Ritter was a Luftwaffe colonel, younger than Klink, but still a colonel and that was not good for Stalag 13 business. He talked a moment with the commandant before walking toward the prisoners' line.

"Now, we know why he's back to his mother land," Hogan noticed.

The German had not been spared from battle. His right arm and right eye were missing. He wore an eye patch instead, but in some ways, he was one of the lucky ones. He was still alive and walking. Newkirk smirked slightly, wondering what his cat would look like with an eye patch like that.

"Do you have a problem, corporal?" Colonel Ritter reacted immediately as he stood right in front of Newkirk.

"No, sir!" The English shouted, in a perfect parody of respectful manners.

The German grimaced but said nothing, turning back to Klink's office. The commandant dismissed the prisoners and followed his guest.

"_Un parfait boche._ I'm going to love him," joked Lebeau. "Hopefully he won't stay too long."

"Don't speak too fast Louis. I have good reasons to believe that he may be our new commandant…"

"What?"

There were protests all around.

"You're not serious colonel," said Lebeau

"Oh, I am, and I don't like the idea at all." Hogan shook his head. "A colonel who can't fight anymore needs a new affectation."

"Do you think that Klink knows about that?" Newkirk asked.

"What do you think?" Hogan returned the question with a sad look.

"Blimey, we're in trouble."

Klink, the iron colonel, was never aware of anything, much less of his own situation. Hogan tapped Newkirk on the shoulder and went into Klink's office.

"Wasn't it you complaining about the lack of action?" Lebeau asked his English friend.

"Me?" Newkirk stared innocently at him. Before he could say anything else, a big snow ball crashed on his face. A little far from him, there was Carter staring defiantly.

Newkirk slowly wiped off the snow and said nothing. The others prisoners waited for a reaction against the perpetrator. Instead of getting angry, the English corporal squatted digging with his hand into the snow. He kneaded a handful very carefully.

While everyone thought he was going to threw it back to Carter, he grinned mischievously and turned the shot against Lebeau's surprise face.

"_Non mais ça va pas_ ? What are you doing?"

"Snow fight!" Newkirk shouted, smiling as snow balls began to fly across the camp.

oOo

"Commandant!" Shouted Hogan, entering in the office without knocking, interrupting intentionally a discussion between the two German colonels.

"Hooogan. What are you doing here?"

"Who is this man?" Asked curiously Colonel Ritter.

"Nobody," Klink answered, glaring at the prisoner.

"Nobody ?" Hogan repeated, hurt in his feelings. He turned toward Ritter and introduced himself.

"Colonel Robert Hogan, US Air Force, senior officer in camp, sir."

"What do you want, Hogan?" Klink asked with exasperation.

"I wanted to present you the guys' congratulations, Colonel," said Hogan, smiling proudly at the commandant.

"Oh, thank you," Klink smiled back before frowning. "Congratulations for what?"

"Your promotion, sir."

"Promotion?"

"Yes. Back to the fight! Maybe you'll have the chance to join the east front. Why didn't you tell me that you decided to leave us? The boys were a little sad when they heard the new but I'm sure they'll learn to love the new commandant in the same way they love you."

As Hogan was speaking, Klink's face was literally falling.

"Wha… What?"

The American colonel looked at his commandant, faking the realization that he may have made a mistake. "Oh, you are not leaving, then?"

"No!" Klink yelled. "Why should I leave?"

"Oh, I'm sorry," Hogan said, apparently embarrassed. "I was sure that…" Began the American, looking from Klink to Ritter. He wanted to make sure that Klink would understand the link between the rumors and the new arrival.

As soon as the commandant turned to Ritter, Hogan knew that his job was done and he could leave. He kept his expression of embarrassment and muttered a last sorry, before closing the door after him.

"Do you know something about this, colonel Ritter?"

Hogan heard Klink asked, behind the closed door. Smiling with satisfaction, Hogan kissed Hilda's forehead before coming out the building. The minute he stepped outside, he received a cold snow ball on his chest.

"Sorry colonel."

He recognized the French accent, but as he raised his head, the cook was already returning on the battle. He sat down on a step, taking time to watch his men playing and laughing like children. Around them, there were barbered wire and guards.

oOo

"There. Don't move, Ol'Jack. It's nearly done," Newkirk whispered to the cat.

Lebeau who had just begun to prepare dinner, turned his head to the table where Newkirk was sitting. The cat was on the table, immobile and quiet. The Frenchman was a little jealous. Newkirk could do anything to the cat without a protest from the pet, while the others prisoners couldn't even get close. Anything was the word. Ol'Jack was now bearing a black eye patch which made him look like a pirate.

"Poor cat…" The cook smiled, returning to his soup.

The cat in question stretched and had a long yawn before jumping on the chair, next to the stove. He was clearly waiting for something. Lebeau took a spoon and plunge it into the soup. He presented the spoon to the cat, who licked it carefully and meowed of satisfaction.

"Glad to have your approval," joked the French man.

"Is dinner is ready?" Asked Hogan as he entered the room. He had spent a few hours in his quarters, searching a solution to save Klink and all their underground operation at the same time. "I'm starving!" He stopped walking when he saw the cat, sitting on the chair and staring at him as he usually did.

"What happened to this cat?" He asked, stunned.

"He looks cute, doesn't he?"

Listening to his English corporal using the term 'cute' to describe a cat definitely convinced the colonel that he might be the only one in the camp who was not going totally crazy. At least, he hoped so.

A foolish idea began to form in Hogan's mind. Suddenly, he realized that he may be as mad as his men. "He looks like a Kraut, doesn't he?"

"Now, that's not really nice," Newkirk commented, a little disappointed on the colonel's observation.

"But it's perfect!" The colonel continued, grinning with satisfaction for his new plan.

"_Oh, seigneur," _said Lebeau, rolling his eyes. "I think our colonel has an idea."

"Oh yeah," confirmed Hogan while his devilish smile frightened the prisoners.

**To be continued… **

**I hope you liked it. Maybe a little review ? **

**I'll try to write the next chapter as soon as possible but I have a lot of work so it will not be too soon… **


	2. Chapter 2

**Here is chapter 2, enjoy !**

In the middle of the night, the stove in the silent quarters of the camp's commandant, discreetly slid. Colonel Klink was deeply asleep in his bedroom, turning and murmuring under his blankets. Only the pale moon lit up the room on this quiet night.

A creaking door, a creaking floor and a shadow run swiftly on the wall.

Suddenly the door hit the wall, pushed by an invisible hand, awaking violently the German colonel.

"_Wa… Was ist das?"_ Klink panicked, looking around the darkened room, searching for the origin of the frightening noise. Like a kid afraid of the monster in the closet, the grown man raised his sheets under his chin as a shield. And a monster there was.

"Mraaaow."

Not in control of his emotions anymore, the iron eagle let a girly scream cross his lips.

A black cat was sitting on his bed, staring at him with one only eye, immobile. Fire danced in the creature's iris as the moonlight dived in it. One eye staring at him… and the other was patched… Could it be? No, it was impossible. Or it was a dream. Yes, it was probably a dream.

"Colonel Ritter?" The German officer asked defiantly.

The cat answered. Well, he just let a little sound roll out his throat but it was already too much for Klink, who jumped again with a little yell and put his head under the blanket, closing his eyes, hoping the cat would disappear.

It took him a few seconds to understand he was being ridiculous. He threw away sheets and blanket to face bravely the cat which was probably just a cat… with an eye patched.

But the cat wasn't there anymore. Klink ran out of his bedroom, looking for the animal and missing the slightly movement of the stove. He checked the doors and windows. They were all closed.

The commandant began to shiver and sweat profusely. The cat had disappeared, like a ghost.

"Schultz! Schultz!"

Under the stove, on his way to the barrack, Newkirk held the cat in his arms and kissed his tiny head.

"Good boy."

oOo

The morning was more peaceful than the night. Hogan was in his quarters, waiting by the coffee-pot for the call Klink would probably make soon. The cat apparition during the German's sleep had really frightened the man. Hogan could as well stop his business right away if after all that Klink didn't complain to general Burckhalter about Ritter,

In the main room, the boys were talking happily around the stove. In fact, Newkirk did a really good imitation of Klink, jumping in his bed, screaming like a little girl. He had done it quite a few times since he return to the barrack due to general demand for an encore. After all, he was the only one who had the privilege to see the scene first hand. Old' Jack had been there too, but they just could not ask the cat, of course.

The animal was asleep on the top of a shelf, not paying attention to the story. Some cans of food were lying on the ground, evidences of the cat's intentions of cleaning up the shelf.

Tired of telling the same story again and again, Newkirk asked:

"Who's for a little poker game?"

"Poker? Again?" Carter moaned. "But, you win all the time!"

"And that, Andrew, is what makes it so fun." The English corporal's joke was not followed by his friends. Apparently they were all tired of losing.

"What about a Tarot game?" Lebeau asked.

"A what?" Three voices echoed.

"A Tarot. It's a French cards game. My family sends me one last week. Wait, I'll show you."

The cook looked under his bunk, got a package from his chest and took the cards out.

"Blimey, Frenchman, what have you done to those poor cards? What do those pictures mean anyway?"

"Pictures don't matter. It is just decoration on the trumps. See, those twenty one cards are trumps, the others are normal cards. It's a seventy-eight cards game."

Lebeau sighted to see his friend's dubious look. Teaching the rules of this beautiful game to the others would not be easy. The French man sat at the table between Carter and Kinch, facing Newkirk.

"Ok, listen to me. It's not really difficult, Lebeau began. The cards values are simple, the king is the heighest. There are also twenty one trumps, their value depending on their numbers. See, this one, the number twenty-one is the better card you can have. The twenty is less powerful, and so on."

"What is the purpose of those trumps?" Carter wanted to know, the young man being truly interested by the explanations.

"Same as in others games, you can only use them if you don't have the played suit."

"Ok," understood Newkirk, "so horrible painted cards are used to make the trick."

"_C'est ça!"_ Lebeau smiled. "Now," he continued, "there are three special cards which have a certain value. When you have one, two or all of them, you'll have to do a score less important than if you had none of them. But I will count so just remember that having those cards is a good way to win, even if it's not necessary. There is the twenty one, the one and…"

"The joker!" Carter tried to guess, catching a card on the table, holding it to Lebeau.

"Yeah… It's not a joker but an Excuse. Anyway, it's all the same. You can put it instead of other card you that don't want to use at the time. However, the Excuse can never win the trick."

"I'm lost." Kinch sighed, looking at the cards with skepticism.

"You are not the only one…" Newkirk replied, examining the trumps. "Are you sure you're not making the rules as we speak?"

"Here are the rules." The French man said, giving him a piece of paper.

"It's in French…"

"So, you'll have to believe my word!" Lebeau argued with a triumphal smile.

"Okay, I surrender. Let's play." The Englishman gave up, interested despite his words in the strange game.

Some explanations and a half hour later, the boys were still playing the French game, attracting around them some of their fellow prisoners.

"I take a Guard!" Newkirk announced loudly, a guard being the most valuable bid in the simplified rules Lebeau taught them.

"You can't take all the time ! You take even if you don't have good cards!" Carter complained.

"Even with bad cards, he wins… That can't be only good luck." Kinch pointed out.

"What do you mean, I'm not cheating," Newkirk defended himself, "I was born under a lucky star!"

"Yeah?" Lebeau asked, warily.

"Cross me heart!"

"You'll go to hell you know?" The cook joked.

"I heard it's a lot of fun down there."

Laughs echoed to the statement, interrupted by Colonel Hogan who entered the room.

"Good news boys!" He declared. "Burckhalter is on his way."

"How could that be good news?" Carter asked, receiving a slight tap from the Englishman behind his head

"Blimey! Andrew! Don't you ever listen?"

"Klink wants to talk to Burckhalter about Ritter, and the general will be here before nightfall. It's perfect." Hogan explained. "Klink complains about Ritter and Burckhalter don't listen to him. But tonight…"

"No." Newkirk cut his commanding officer.

"No?"

"You can't do the same trick twice, sir. All con-men in the world know that. What if Klink tell him about Ol'Jack? Burckhalter will never buy that. It's too dangerous."

"Why are you always so pessimistic, Newkirk? Have ever my plans gone wrong?"

The look of despair he received in return came not only from the English corporal but from all his men. Hogan thought intently about his last question. Okay, maybe his plans not always went as smoothly as he had expected them to go, but it was not like that all the time, or was it?

The main subject on the colonel's plan chose that very moment to jump over Newkirk's shoulder, using it as a trampoline to land on the table. He dispersed all the cards. Ignoring the insults in French, the cat rubbed tenderly his head on his Englishman's chest, purring loudly.

"I don't want him to be hurt colonel…" Newkirk said with puppy eyes, catching his furry friend to hold him tight.

"He won't be hurt," Hogan assured him.

oOo

Klink acted strangely all the day long, doing his best to avoid colonel Ritter. Every time he looked the man in the eye, he could only think about the black cat which wore a similar eye-patch. He knew it had been a dream, what else could it have been? In spite of it, he could not forget that creepy red eye.

"Colonel Klink, did you have a problem?" Ritter asked him, concerned about the way the commandant was looking at him as he walked in his direction.

Klink was started, not paying attention at the giggles around him. Obviously, some prisoners heard him screamed last night…

"Ja, Colonel Ritter? I mean, no, I don't have any problem. I just had a rough night."

"I know." Ritter said, not detailing his thoughts and living the commandant to walk around the camp.

Klink watched the man as he walked away, thinking about Ritter words. What did it mean? Did he hear him scream too or…? No, it was not possible. It was not possible... Klink shook his head in disbelieve and walked into his office.

There was snow everywhere, covering Stalag 13 with a white and bright coat. In the middle of the yard, men from barrack 2 were doing their daily exercises, jumping and raising their arms in a rhythmic manner.

"One, two. One, two." Hogan shouted to encourage his men, his cold breathing elevating in the gray sky.

"Why shall we to do that outside?" Newkirk complained, suddenly stopping.

"Are you cold?" Hogan asked.

"Yes sir!" The Englishman responded hopping for his commanding officer to be nice enough to let him go inside the barrack. He should have known it was not that simple.

"It's perfect! These exercises will warm you up."

Newkirk glared at the American and his fellow prisoners laughing at him.

"Ah, ah… Funny sir… »

He did not see the German officer who was watching them, a distasteful grin deforming his face.

"And you call yourself a soldier." He said with no trace of humor, approaching the little group.

"I'm a soldier. _Sir_." Newkirk responded, hurt by the comment.

The German did not miss the Englishman's arrogant intonation and decided to teach him a little lesson.

"So, it's exercise time? What do you think about fifty push-ups, corporal?"

"Now? In the snow?"

"Unless you want to wait until the spring thaw."

"Oh, thanks sir, I'll do that." Newkirk smiled innocently.

The German face went red and he hit the snow with his foot.

"Now!" He shouted.

Newkirk glanced at Hogan who frowned but said nothing. The American did not want to put them in more trouble they already were. Newkirk understood. He did what the German was asking him to do, placing his bared hands on the snow and starting to up and down.

"Good boy. » The one-eye colonel smirked, enjoying the scene.

Newkirk clenched his teeth and did not say a word. He really hoped this man would not stay at Stalag 13 as the new commandant. Cursing the man in thoughts, the Englishman barely noticed the men around him who began to bend down and follow him. Soon, all the prisoners of the barrack two were doing push-ups in the snow, ignoring the flaming look upon them.

"One, two. One, two." Hogan gave the rhythm, doing the exercise himself, as if the German was not even there.

The German officer would not stay any longer. After a last irritated look at the insubordinate prisoners, Ritter turned on his heels and went away, clearly angry.

"Well, it wasn't too soon!" Newkirk whispered, getting up and hiding his hands in his pockets, trying to warm them. "Thanks mates."

The only comment he heard in response was not really one he could have expected at all…

"Who wants to do a snowman?"

"Andrew?" Newkirk began, trying to be indulgent.

"Yes?"

"Are you insane?"

oOo

"And why do you think colonel Ritter is untruthfully?" General Burckhalter tried to understand as a headache began to make him dizzy, a headache named Klink…

"Well…" Colonel Klink didn't know how to bring up the subject, playing nervously with the papers on his desk.

"Maybe you're just afraid he could be a better commandant than you?"

"How could he be? There are no escapes at Stalag 13! This is the toughest…" The iron colonel began to panic.

"Klink! I know that, but I assure you I'm ready to exchange a few escapes for erasing the headache I have every time I come here. Ritter or someone else, it doesn't matter."

Klink blinked a few times, already seeing the snowflakes on the Russian front.

"But… but I can assure you General, colonel Ritter can't take my place."

"Well, I'm sure I will regret the question but why?"

"I, I… I." The commandant stammered.

"Klink!"

"I had a dream!"

Burckhalter stared at him wide-eyed, unable to say anything, his headache suddenly blowing up in his brain.

oOo

"Old Jack! Let him go, nasty cat!"

The cat sat on Newkirk's bunk scratched Carter's hand as the sergeant tried to catch him. He jumped gracefully out of reach, landing on Lebeau's bed, and watched the man who was carefully approaching him. Old Jack sat on the blanket, ears in alert, ready to run away, paying no attention at the little paws which were grabbing his fur.

The mouse tail was stuck between the feline's fangs and the poor creature was desperately trying to get free, scratching and biting his captor's fur.

"Hang on Felix, I'll save you!" Carter promised as he jumped on the cat. Too late.

The animal was faster than him, his soft pawns touching the floor before the human had a chance to catch him. Two others prisoners tried to stop the cat, but he was too smart. He noticed the door opening and ran outside.

"No!" Carter screamed.

Kinch, who just opened the door to enter, had barely time to grab the black spark before he disappeared between his legs.

"What's happening here?" He asked, shooting the door behind him and holding the obviously angry cat away from his neck skin. Nonetheless, Old Jack kept trying to scratch the American sergeant several times.

Carter forced the cat to open his mouth and squeezed the poor and trembling mouse in his hands. He was relieved to see Felix was unharmed, terrified and slobber sticky, but alive.

Old Jack watched his prey as it was vanishing in the younger sergeant's pocket. He did not understand why those men took his new toy away.

"Mraow?"

Newkirk chose the perfect moment to come in, staring in shock at the scene. His poor cat imploring as he was hanging upon the floor. He did not wait longer and catch his furry friend to save him from his torturers.

"What do you think you're doing?" The Englishman asked, protecting the purring cat within his arms.

"He tried to eat Felix!" Carter argued.

"He didn't." Newkirk responded, self-confident, scraping Old Jack ears. "You're not a killer, are you? Nooooo, you're not."

"Well," Kinch tried, amused by the Englishman's attitude, "maybe he just wanted to play with it."

"Play with it! Carter shouted. Have you ever seen a cat playing with a mouse without killing it?"

"Don't be so dramatic Andrew, I'll explain him and he will not hurt Felix, okay?"

"Okay…"

And that was it, the mouse was safe, for the moment, and the cat was happy despite the loss of his prey, purring in his master arms. Carter put Felix in his locker to protect him but did not argue more with his English friend. He liked seeing him smiling. Newkirk was truly happy to have Old Jack and for Carter, it was enough to not throwing the potential mice killer out.

oOo

As Hogan had predicted, Burckhalter stayed for the night in Klink's quarters, and it was now time for Newkirk and Old Jack to do their little ghost performance again.

"Here we are. Don't worry little mate, it will be okay." The English corporal whispered, trying to reassure himself as he moved the stove in Klink's living room. Getting out the tunnel, holding his cat with one arm, Newkirk moved slowly toward Burckhalter's room. The loud snore reassured him as he walked in the room. The General was deeply asleep.

Newkirk put the cat on the bet, letting him sat as he usually did, still, without moving a single whisker. He hesitated a moment not really sure about Colonel Hogan's plan. Fooling Klink was a thing, but Burckhalter…

Despite his doubts, Newkirk left the room and, like he did it the night before, he slammed the door, running toward the tunnel entrance as the General jumped out his dreams. He slammed the door just to make noise but let it open. The night before, he did not have to wait long before the cat ran in his arms after Klink's terrified scream.

But all con men knew that a trick never worked twice.

Newkirk heard the General yelling but then… all he heard was a cold and petrifying gunshot. There was no cat running out of the bedroom, no sound, nothing.

**To be continued**

**So, what do you think about the story, it will not be too long, one or two more chapter only (Believe me, it's not easy to write in English ****.) The cat is cute no ? Please, reviews ? **


	3. Chapter 3

**Here is the last real chapter. I will just have to write the end now and the story will be over. Well, I hope you will enjoy it as much as I enjoy writing it. **

**I really love to create stories with Newkirk and I love pets too : it's the perfect mix for me ;) **

**And thanks again to Sierra Sutherwinds for the beta reading and the corrections **

**Chapter 3**

"You said it would be okay, you said he would be fine!" The fuming Englishman shouted as he ran into the office.

Hogan was discreetly watching the Germans race across the camp, the window's shutter barely open. Newkirk's irruption in his quarters made him skip a heartbeat and turn over. He frowned at Newkirk obvious anger. He was about to remind him whom he was talking to when Kinch entered the room. He grabbed his friend by the arm. Just in case.

"Calm down, Newkirk! What are you talking about?" The sergeant asked.

"Burckhalter shot him! I knew it was going to be risky but you said it will be fine and I believe you…" The corporal looked at his colonel straight in the eyes.

"Newkirk!" Hogan stopped the man before he went too far. "I don't know what happened in there, okay? We heard the shot but I'm sure your cat wasn't harm. Actually, we weren't so confident about you. That shot lit Burckhalter's room ten or fifteen minutes ago and the way back through the tunnel isn't too long," Hogan said. "I wondered what could have taken you so long." He looked at the Englishman and he noticed the red shade in those blue eyes. Had he been crying?... For a pet?

"How can you be certain Ol'Jack is okay?" Newkirk asked warily. However, he relaxed a little, hopping for a reassuring answer.

Kinch responded, still holding his arm. "LeBeau saw him through the periscope. He was running outside Klink's quarters. Germans didn't even notice him," he said, patting Newkirk on the shoulder.

"Oh." All his anger vanished instantly as a hint of guilt replaced it.

Newkirk stayed still for a moment and without a word walked out the room. He blushed under his fellows prisoners' quizzical looks. It would have been impossible for his shouts to go unnoticed.

Hogan watched in disbelief as the corporal ran away without an apology for his lack of respect. Kinch smiled at his friend's impulsive behavior and the colonel could not contain his own amused smile. That young Englishman was really a lot of work.

oOo

"I don't understand how it is possible to pull a trigger in your sleep?" Commandant Klink faced Burckhalter with his elbows on his desk and his hands crossed under his chin. The general looked puzzled as he paced up and down in the little office.

"Don't start Klink, I said I did a bad move in my sleep. The gun was under my pillow, I'm lucky I don't shot myself."

"Ja… But I am still thinking it's a little odd…"

"Klink!"

The commandant jumped and straightened up, dropping his hands on the desk.

"Ja, Ja! Those things happened all the time." He agreed finally, honestly believing in his words. Of course, he would believe anything if he was ordered to. "It's happen to me all the time. See, last week, I…"

"Klink! Shut your stupid mouth or I will change my mind."

"Change your mind, sir?"

"Ja."The general answered as he finally sat on a chair. "I thought about Colonel Ritter and maybe he's not fit to be a commandant of a prison camp after all."

"Oh, you're so right. He's clearly not as good as me for the job! After all, not a single prisoner has ever escaped from my stalag."

"I can still change my mind…" The German general muttered, rubbing his painful temples.

"Oh, I understand… Shut up Klink…" The commandant of Stalag 13 mumbled, shaking his head sadly.

oOo

Newkirk let a long sigh passed through his lips for the hundredth time. He lied down on his bed, his arms crossed behind his head and watching the ceiling. Another sigh and LeBeau let his spoon fall in the soup in irritation.

"_C'est pas bientôt fini?_ Don't you have anything to do? Like annoying anyone else?"

Slowly, Newkirk turn on his stomach, putting his hands under his chest to have a better view on the French cook. "How can I bother you by doing nothing?"

"That's exactly what annoys me," the French answered, looking at his friend and shaking his head at his childish attitude. He knew that Newkirk was concerned about Ol'Jack, even if he would never admit it. "Well, if you really have nothing to do, what don't you give me a hand?" LeBeau asked.

He rarely asked for help when he was cooking. The main reason was his friends' totally lack of culinary competence. The second reason was the way he looked at cooking. This was his little moment of peace, a private matter. He might ask for help, but only if he had too much work to do. However, even in those cases, no one would respond right away… Especially Newkirk who was always the first one on criticize LeBeau's food.

So, when the English corporal jumped down his bunk to join him near the stove, LeBeau could not be more surprised. Definitely, there was a first time for everything.

"What do you want me to do? And… What are you doing anyway? It's smell terrible!"

"Snails." The cook answered.

Newkirk did not notice the French teasing tone. He paled while wincing with disgust. LeBeau shook his head in despair and threw a cloth on his friend face.

"Hey!" Newkirk complaint as he caught the cloth in the air.

"_Idiot,_" LeBeau smiled. "Believe me, when these snails will be cooked, you'll see. I'm sure even you will appreciate it." He did not need words to know what the Englishman was thinking; his wary expression was readable enough. He opened the pot and inhaled. "That, my friend," the cook said, "is a Pot-au-feu."

"No, it's not." Newkirk noticed after a quick look.

"_Comment ça_? What do you mean?" The Frenchman shouted, with a warning in his eyes.

" Louis…" sighted Newkirk. "There is no meat in that pot…"

LeBeau stayed silent. His friend had a point; there was no meat. Moreover, without meet, it was not a Pot-au-feu. Schultz had promised to bring some for lunch but he was late.

"Oh! Shut up." LeBeau finally said, returning to his cooking. "Peel those potatoes."

Newkirk did not argue. He enjoyed annoying his French friend but he was not crazy. With or without meat, he wanted to eat. He sat on a chair, grabbed a knife and a potato. The moment he was getting started, the barrack door opened slowly with a cracking sound.

There was no one behind the door, not a human being at least.

Pawns hung tightly on the door handle; Ol'Jack glanced at the astonished prisoners.

"Mraaaaow…"

"Well," LeBeau began, "now we know how he managed to escape from Klink's quarters…"

oOo

"Look, look!"

Carter jumped out the tunnel, happier than a kid in front of a Christmas tree, and ran towards Newkirk. The Englishman put his cards down, ignoring Kinch's objections. The older sergeant was winning his first game of the day and Carter's interruption was not welcome at all, especially because Newkirk was taking advantage of the distraction to mix his cards with the rest of the deck…

"Look at what?" Newkirk asked to his younger friend, ignoring Kinch's killing stare.

"I did this for Old Jack. If he plays with it, maybe he wouldn't run after Felix." Carter explained, presenting him the object he had been hiding behind his back.

"I will probably regret it but I need to ask… What is this supposed to be exactly? Oh, let me guess! It's a stick."

A simple tree branch with a string tied at one end. On the other end of the string, Carter glued some feathers of different sizes and colors that he probably found in the forest. Most of them were brown and white, but there were some of more vivid colors. Newkirk caught one red. It was soft and delicate.

"You really think Jack will play with this?"

"Let's try it!" Carter suggested, putting his invention in his friend's hands.

"I was winning…" Kinch mumbled as Carter and Newkirk left him alone to go after the cat.

Finding the animal was not hard in such a confined space. All the boys had to do was following the sound of scratching wood. Old Jack was sharpening his claws on the wall, between two bunks. That would not bother anyone; the wall was already a mess.

"Hey, little fellow." Newkirk called his attention.

Hearing the voice of his favorite human, Jack stopped his manicure work and raised his eye toward the two prisoners knelt behind him. The red eye focused immediately on the moving feathers his human was agitating in front of him. He stared solemnly at them for a moment. He was not a kitten anymore to play with everything he saw. However, the colors and the movement of the feathers were irresistible. Carefully, as though testing the ground for a trap, he stretched a paw to touch a feather. The whole thing moved at the contact.

"Maooo!" Apparently, it was fun.

Newkirk and Carter laughed at the cat's reaction. Sitting on the floor in an almost human way, Jack hit the feathers with his two paws, opening his little mouth trying to catch one inside. But Newkirk would not let that happen. He moved the stick to make the game more fun for the animal. It worked!

"He could play alone too, if we stuck the toy somewhere," said Carter, taking his invention from Newkirk's hands to tickle the cat's nose with the feathers. Jack sneezed, making everyone laugh. The other prisoners gathered around to see the cat playing. Most of the time, Jack was rather creepy but at this moment, he looked just like the nice pet they should all have back home.

The peaceful atmosphere was brutally broken by the heavy entrance of Sergeant Schultz. His eyes went directly on the black cat.

"Oh boy! You have to hide that creature, colonel Ritter is on his…"

Newkirk threw a blanket on the cat just in time. He got up and pulled Andrew by his arm. Ritter was already in there and no one could say if he had seen the cat or no. Moreover, it was impossible to know how much time Jack would stay still.

"_Was ist_ that?" The German colonel asked, visibly upset. He was not stupid. He had already seen Klink's strange behavior, as well as Burckhalter's when he was around. He did not understand the cause but he was getting angry at it. He needed to take it out on someone.

Everyone froze.

Newkirk was the first to notice that Ritter was pointing at Old'Jack's new toy.

"On, that... It's a… well, a…" He was not good at stressful situations.

Hogan came out of his office the moment he heard the German's arrival. He understood the situation right away and stepped forward. He looked at the branch, full of feathers and cleared his throat to speak.

"It's a ceremonial stick. Carter here is part Sioux. He uses for... the rain dance."

"Rain dance? But it's snowing outside!" Ritter yelled.

"Yes," Hogan agreed. "Rain will be an improvement, compare to the snow, don't you think so? The dance for a sunny day would be way too much complicate to accomplish."

Ritter turned red. Were they all crazy in this camp? He left the barrack in an urge for fresh air, walking away as fast as he could.

That was just the cue that Old Jack was waiting for to jump out the blanket and catch his new toy with his four paws, planting his fangs in the feathers under the laughs of his roommates.

oOo

"You… what?" Ritter was livid. He could not believe the thing he was hearing.

Klink was sitting at his desk not even bothering to hide his amusement. Burckhalter, on the other hand, looked deadly serious at the opposite side of the room.

"I have changed my mind. This Stalag doesn't need a new commandant. After all, no one has escaped under Colonel Klink's watch," the general repeated, slightly chocking on the latest. Congratulating Klink on a job well done was rather painful.

"I don't understand. You were the one who told me that Colonel Klink was nothing more than an incompetent clown, _General."_

"I don't have to explain myself, my decision is final." On these words, the general left.

Klink sprung up. "Look at the time," he said. "Roll call never waits." He rushed out of his office, not wanting to stay behind with Ritter.

The snow had just stop, making easier for Schultz to count the boys of Barrack 2. He was about to do his report when Ritter suddenly stormed out Klink's office. The officer walked directly toward Burckhalter and Klink.

"Show time," whispered Hogan to his men. He did not look surprised because he had listened to the entire conversation at Klink's office. The others could perfectly understand what was going on. After all, they had worked hard for this moment.

"You can't do that to me. I turned down many offers better than this one just to come here. What am I supposed to do now?"

"You are forgetting whom you are talking to. I am your superior!" Burckhalter shouted.

German officers' yelling at each other was always a great spectacle for the prisoners. They were all having a good time, but all of a sudden...

"Oh no…" Newkirk and the other prisoners gasped.

Hogan looked on the same direction and got pale. Old Jack passed by, indifferent to the German officers' quarrel and everyone else present in the yard. Apparently, he was returning to the barrack after a walk. His pawns sank in the snow, black on white; it was impossible to miss the cat. No one did.

"This is Ritter!" Klink yelled, too surprised at the apparition to be careful with what he was saying.

Burckhalter's eyes went from the cat to Ritter. Then, he looked at Hogan and his men. This trick could only have come from the American colonel.

Ritter narrowed his eyes. He looked at the cat's patched eye, Klink's reaction and Burckhalter's stare. "Are you kidding me? Is this why you reject me as Stalag 13's commandment? For a prisoner's prank? Well, suddenly you're not smarter than Klink, my general."

"Ritter!" Yelled Burckhalter, turning red.

The prisoners watched the German colonel digging his own grave. His anger was carrying him away from all logic and self-preservation_._

"What are you going to do? Call the fire squad on me to cover your stupidity?" Ritter took out his pistol and made a shot in the air. The echo hit hard on the hearts of the men of Barrack 2.

They went quiet as they saw the little black and furry form of Old Jack rolling a few feet away. The snow tinted slowly in red.

"Is that what you want, general? Shot me?" Ritter continued, ignoring the prisoners' pale faces. He did not even see Newkirk's hand already looking for the knife that he kept hid in his coat.

Fortunately, Hogan saw his man first and caught his arm before he had a chance to throw the knife against Ritter.

"Newkirk, don't," the colonel ordered.

"He deserves it," the English corporal protested, his voice trembled out of rage and pain.

"But you don't," Hogan whispered. "I can't afford to lose one of my best men for a cat. Ritter will have what he deserves, I promise," he said.

Newkirk looked at Ritter. Five guards, ready to fire, surrounded him.

"I'm not going to kill you," Burckhalter said. He grinned as one of his men took the man's gun. "It would be too easy. What would you think about a little trip to the east?"

"You can't send me back to the front." Ritter did not look so sure about that.

"I can and I will."

"With one arm, I will not be of any use!"

"Well, with the Russians, you will not need your arms anyway, only your legs. To run."

Anger disappeared from Ritter's face and it was replaced by fear. The guards escorted him to the cooler.

"Klink," Burckhalter began, looking at the astonished commandant, "You will keep your post for the moment but it's only a question of time before a mistake sends you to the Russian front."

"_Ja general_, thank you general," Klink smiled painfully.

Burckhalter got into his staff car and rushed out that crazy place as fast as the snow allowed him.

"Schultz!" Klink shouted. "Pick up that cat and threw it away. And you" he pointed at the prisoners, "you'll have to respond for that joke of yours!" He had no proof of the prisoners' participation in all that mess but he recognized Hogan's signature when he saw it. Thate man was always the source of his troubles.

Newkirk waited until Klink entered in his office before running towards the immobile and red soaking cat, lying down on the cold snow. He knelt down, gently petting the dead cat's head. He was still warm and soft. "I'm sorry little mate, I'm so sorry".

"Oh Newkirk…" Schultz said sadly, uncertain of what to say to comfort the corporal. No one knew.

LeBeau knelt beside his friend, squeezing his shoulder. The sight of blood made him dizzy and he had to struggle to stay awake.

Hogan felt terribly guilty. He knew what that cat represented for Newkirk and he used him in his plans all the same. He was about to said something when Newkirk gasped with surprise. Right under his fingers, the little chest began to move. Slowly. Up and down!

"He's breathing! Guv, he's not dead!"

A feeling of relief surprised Hogan. He had not notice it before but that cat had become a true member of their small family. "Newkirk, take him to Wilson. Maybe, we still can save him."

The Englishman did not need to hear the order twice. He lifted up Old Jack, keeping him warm under his coat. He ran to Wilson's barrack. Some German guards saw him but they let him go. Not all of them were as heartless as they looked.

"And Schultz…" Hogan added.

"I saw nothing. Noooothing."

"Good," Hogan smiled. He was about to follow his men when Schultz called him.

"I saw nothing but I hope the Englander's cat will recover. Even if he's really creepy…"

"Thanks, Schultz."

**To follow… **

**So, what is your opinion ? Is that what you except? **

**Thank you for reading and reviewing, I can't wait for yours reactions **


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